


The Things That Are Not my Fault

by Frayach



Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach





	The Things That Are Not my Fault

**The Things That Are Not My Fault**

The first story at six o’clock  
is about last night’s bomb.  
There’s a black crater in the road  
still smoking like the barrel of a gun.  
There's a fire gutted car  
its vinyl upholstery melted and stinking,  
sizzling in the flame like fat in a frying pan.  
There’s a single shoe,  
a sneaker, and, thank God, no foot inside.  
We can pretend its owner escaped,  
limping home with nothing more than cuts  
on his sole. In the bathroom’s yellow light,  
his wife worries the glass shards free  
from their gloves of skin. The water in the basin  
is pink, the towels white and clean.

There's the reporter, her hair blowing free  
of its barrettes. Behind her, the police tape cracks  
like a whip in the wind. She gestures to the wreckage  
and asks the question that’s on everybody’s mind:  
Who did this? Who will phone in with a face  
cloth over the mouth piece. A disembodied voice  
whose owner could be next door or in another  
country. You want to tell whoever will listen  
that you didn’t do it, that you’re pretty sure you were  
home last night. You have several splinters of yourself  
that can provide an alibi. You can pretend  
you have nothing to do with explosions  
with things blown asunder.  
You do not find destruction beautiful. The way the fire  
glows in the car's blackened skeleton, like a phoenix  
in a cage. It still amazes you

that things take place every night that aren’t  
your fault. It's both a comfort and a curse to know  
that you don’t make things happen, that you’re not  
responsible, that violence  
is not your fault. The Resistance fights on  
but you are not their martyr. They don’t even know  
your name. For once there is no blood on your hands.  
Why is it then . . . Why is it that you feel so bereft,  
so terribly, so mercifully,  
alone?


End file.
